Once Upon a Pemberley Hallway
by The Derpite
Summary: Set in Pemberley after Elizabeth has received Darcy's proposal and letter; it's when she goes to visit Pemberley with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. Basically, I wrote this because I wanted more Darcy/Elizabeth cute awkwardness so it's just little tiny cutsie. Literally nothing happens. The end. Thank *bows*


All at once, it was too much for me. I stood up and excused myself from the meaningless and enraging banter that Miss Bingley was keeping and quitted the room, plastering composure onto my countenance. As soon as I was in the hallway though, the look fell from my face and left me looking, I was sure, quite weary.

I did not know exactly whereabouts I was headed, but I began walking toward the grand staircase in the centre of the hall. I picked up my skirts with one hand and held the rail with the other as I walked up the stairs. I passed several servants who greeted me pleasantly and kept on their merry way, for which I was grateful. I was in no mood to be told I needed to stay in the drawing room with those imbecile ladies.

I immediately regretted my rude thoughts and downgraded my word usage to 'disagreeable'.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, I peered down each direction of the hall I was faced with and was pulled by some inner feeling to the left. I wandered down it for quite some time as I was continuously distracted by the magnificent paintings that adorned every wall. I adored the art of this place, understanding myself what time and effort were required to make such a piece of art.

As I meandered, I began to become more curious about the art and rather forgot my original intention of finding a room in which to hide and staying in it. Some of the pieces were intriguing enough to me that I actually stretched my hand out and traced my finger over a particularly pleasing brushstroke.

I came to a painting which seemed most common and which was dressed in not so particularly beautiful a frame and considered passing by, but its warm sort of beauty encouraged me to stop and observe.

It was of a young girl but not a traditional portrait by any means. This young girl was among the trees and grasses of some beautiful wood, but it was hardly the focus of the picture. The young girl was beautiful beyond measure- and smiling! Her smile seemed to light up the very stretch of corridor in which I was standing. Upon further inspection of her face, I determined the work to be a depiction of Miss Georgiana Darcy. Her dress billowed with the breeze and she held the thin fabric between her fingers. I could practically feel the air swirling around her. Her hair was blowing recklessly as one might expect it to in the wind. I found myself more pleased with this painting than I had been with any other and was glad I had chosen to give it a second chance. I appreciated this artist's sense of reality; it was a true portrayal of the world. It was natural and untouched by artist's liberty. I looked down to the corner of the painting to attempt to discern the artist's name. "F. Darcy," it was signed. I nearly gasped.

"Elizabeth?"

I did gasp this time and whirled around to see Mr. Darcy himself coming down the hallway.

"Mr. Darcy," I said, curtsying politely.

"Excuse my manners; Miss Bennet," he rephrased and bowed low. "If I may inquire as to why you've deserted the ladies?" he asked.

"I find their subject of conversation of little use," I replied.

Mr. Darcy stood quietly but I could not blame him for not replying. I had not provided for a very good topic of conversation myself.

We were silent for what felt like ages longer. Mr. Darcy opened his mouth several times as if to say something but spoke no words. I myself felt the need for conversation. Given my recently newfound knowledge and intrusion upon his privacy, I felt obligated to carry the conversation so that it might not stray into uncomfortable territory.

"You like to paint, Mr. Darcy?" I asked.

He looked eager for the subject, whether he actually liked it or not. He pounced on the opportunity at speech as quickly as ever.

"I suppose I cannot lie in my own house," he said which caused thoughts to go racing through my head. I knew he had not meant the comment spitefully, but it was apparent that there was some sort of change in him that had taken place since our last meeting having to do with his humility. Rather than jumping on his mistake in speech (which I could see he already recognized) as I usually would, I took a more gentle approach.

"Well, indeed you may lie in your own house. If there is any lying to be done, let it be in your own house," I said and he listened intently, taking a small step toward me. When he didn't reply, I continued. "Although I would hardly call this a house," I said, casting my eyes about the passage.

"No?"

"No, certainly not. From my very limited experience in manors of this type, I would be persuaded to recognize this dwelling as a castle of sorts."

"In appearances, perhaps," he said and I puzzled for a moment over his words.

"Forgive me if I do not understand."

"I mean only to say that it is not complete," said he.

This remark confused, angered, and thrilled me. I found it hard to keep my air of composure suddenly. "Mr. Darcy," I addressed him directly and having not sorted my thoughts entirely pushed on anyway, "I am sure I know exactly what you mean, but it is a topic which I cannot possibly think to address at this time. To save you the bewilderment of my emotions and possible offense to your own, I would ask you not to mention it again," I implored.

"I do apologize," he said immediately, stepping toward me again, "I assure you, I did not mean to bewilder you at all, but I realize now my decidedly irrational portrayal of emotion was inappropriate," he spoke sincerely, continuously stepping to me with his hands held out in surrender, "if it would please you, madam, we might forget about my misappropriated speech and continue with conversation. I wish not to cause you any distress or grief. My words were ill spoken and I retract them, if it be favorable in your eyes," he said, pleading with me sincerely.

"It would be most favorable, although hardly possible to achieve. I have only just begun coming to grips with your-" I stopped mid-sentence. I had brought it up. The very thing I had been striving to stay away from had just nearly slipped off my tongue and was surely making a place in the forefront of Darcy's mind. I had opened the floodgates and Mr. Darcy was surely eager to find my real thoughts and emotions on the matter of his confessions.

My thoughts slowed down and I was able to hear the silence which existed between us. I could not say another word for fear of incrimination among other things, most chiefly in my mind being that I had no right to speak to him this way. I owed him every sincere apology that I harbored in myself and much more respect than I was exhibiting to him now. I suppose I owed him an explanation; a display of feelings which I had yet to show him but which he had already made me privy to on more than one occasion. I prepared myself for whatever questions he may have, realizing that it was not my place to withhold answers.

He stood unspeaking and unmoving, almost as if he were some statue, but I could see him thinking very hard.

"If you will allow me to accompany you, I think we ought to make for the drawing room. I daresay you are missed," he said after another moment of silence. He held out his arm politely and I looked at him, perhaps more bewildered than before.

He had spared me, at least for now, from unavoidable embarrassment and even pain of honesty.

I nodded. "I would hardly say I am missed," I said and stepped forward, taking his arm cautiously, "at least not by all of the party."

"You are too humble," he remarked. "I might be so bold as to say the conversation has probably fallen entirely flat and the ladies are in grave danger of discussing fashion or some other ghastly subject," he said, procuring a still slightly confused smile from me.

I had nothing more to say on the subject and resigned myself to my thoughts for the entirety of our walk.


End file.
